Unconventional
by Sunflowers In Moscow
Summary: FrUK / / After much thinking, England can finally pinpoint seven things that he really hates about France. But for some inexplicable reason, these things make him love the damned frog too. Bloody hell; when did his life get so complicated?


**_I don't own Hetalia_**

* * *

_Arthur hated many things about Francis, but after much thinking - days and days of it - he had narrowed it down to seven._

* * *

England felt the irritation rising as he watched the idiot dance about the room. America had one of his childish grins in place as he sung in a horridly high pitched voice about his love of cola. The elder nation might have been able to withstand it if the younger hadn't insisted on singing the same ear-grating verse over and over, the volume growing louder and more obnoxious and more utterly DAFT-

England's hand twitched, then twitched again before he finally gave in and grabbed the nearest heavy object, which happened to be his stone paperweight with a perfect British flag carved and painted onto it. It fitted comfortably in his hand as he held it up to anticipate the American's next closest location so he could neatly lob it off the wanker's forehead and knock some sense into him.

Well, he had more chances of knocking some stupid out - but either result was preferable to _this_.

He was careful to keep his eyes open, and just as he pulled back his arm to launch it forward and hopefully down the annoyance, something attracted his attention out of the corner of his eye.

He shifted his gaze to the new focus, and for a moment, everything around him melted away and vanished completely. Nothing else mattered as he watched slightly waved cornsilk locks sail through the air, certain sections of them catching the late morning sun streaming through the window and reflecting flashes of white light into England's sight.

Their owner caught his stare, and chuckled lightly before throwing a flirty wink towards the flustered blond.

England scowled, before turning back to his original goal and realising not only had the moment passed, but America had stopped singing - preventing him from realising some frustration out on the usually ready target. Damn it.

Bloody France.

* * *

_Arthur hated his hair; it caused him to lose his grasp when nothing else could - he'd really like to know why._

* * *

He was trapped, and he knew it.

Two hands were placed firmly against the wall either side of his head, and deceptively strong arms blocked any exit he might try to use to escape from the current situation.

He tried not to look at his assailant, instead looking blankly at the bland painting on the opposite wall as if it was painted by Gogh. A frustrated sigh echoed in the empty corridor, coming from the blond who was holding him prisoner.

England kept looking away, determined not to acknowledge the other's existence. He would _not _be the first to crack.

However, he didn't anticipate the sudden reaction of an irritated Frenchman. Long, slender fingers grasped his chin and turned his face sharply, and England couldn't help but let out a gasp when sapphire eyes connected with his own startled emeralds.

They weren't icy at all, not like he had assumed those many years ago - had it really been so long since he had _looked _at the man? Surely not.

They were more like a pool of caribbean water, warm and refreshing, with a sparkle which only came from capturing the fresh sunlight completely and absolutely. Like they had captured him, England could admit as their intense colouring beckoned him in with the promises of love and an acceptance he hadn't felt in centuries.

His coloured irises were so complex and magnetic, and England could feel it as one by one each of his refusals and each of his denials were rendered worthless under that watchful gaze and he could feel his steel grip on himself loosening-

The man's whisper infused with that entrancing - damned - French accent was the last straw.

"I won't let you ignore me any longer, _cher_."

Ignoring the fact that it was in actuality he who had been caught, he leapt forward, and pulled that infuriating face towards his own.

Also ignoring that devilish and knowing smirk on that mouth that just needed to stop moving.

* * *

_Arthur hated his eyes; they caused him to lose his self control - and that was unacceptable._

* * *

England scowled as he was made to wait at the ostentatious front door, trying with all his might to prevent himself from smashing it to pieces. Instead he looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes. He had been waiting at the door for fifteen minutes - after knocking and rapping and banging extremely loudly, to no avail.

It ached to think, but perhaps he had been set up.

It was probably more concerning that it didn't surprise him. This was just the kind of thing that frog would do, just to humiliate him.

England huffed in an attempt to stop his eyes from beginning to water - he had given the man an inch, and he went and took a mile - and _God_, he and his freakish friends were probably filming this right now, and laughing at his expense, and how could he be so _stupid_-

"_Angleterre_?" The confused tone came from behind him, and he turned to see something he certainly hadn't expected to see.

France was standing stock still, as if the shorter blond's presence was a complete surprise as he came up the path from his vineyard. Over his arm was a wicker basket, full with what looked to be two bottles of wine and many vines of red grapes. A single grape was in his other hand on its way to his mouth; obviously, the taller blond had been about to eat it before the unexpected appearance of his companion.

What surprised England most, however, was the state the other was in. His hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, a few untamable strands framing his face. A light sheen covered his skin, as if he had been out in the sun all afternoon and was just starting to cool down. A loose cream shirt covered his upper body, the sleeves hauled up roughly to the elbows and the first two buttons undone, showing some of the man's lightly tanned chest. He also wore fitting but well worn jeans, the area around the knees slightly dusty, as if he had been kneeling for something. Last of all, obviously old summer sandals completely the getup.

... He couldn't remember a time he had ever seen France less than perfectly made up, apart from during wartime.

It was... odd, but not unwelcome.

"What are you doing 'ere so earl-" The other man's eyes caught sight of the sundial in the centre of his small front patio, and he swore.

"_Merde! Je suis désolé, cher_. I lost track of ze time."

He shuffled past the slightly stunned Englishman, throwing the grape in his mouth and fishing out his keys from his back pocket. He opened the door, before waving his guest in.

"_Entrer, Angleterre. _Don't be shy!"

He did as he was asked and quietly walked into the man's slightly unfamiliar home, looking at the décor with a strangely uncritical eye.

France was suspicious. Very suspicious. England was a very opinionated man, and silence did not become him.

"_Angleterre_?"

England turned and gave him a questioning look whilst trying to regain the upper hand he had lost by attempting to give a haughty look. And failing.

"Aren't you going to say somezing?"

"... Are those Levi's?" Was that really the only thing that came to his mind?

When France laughed and went in a long spiel about how despite the fact Americans have no fashion sense, they still produce hard wearing clothing, England mentally dug himself a hole to live in.

He could see past the casual front the Frenchman was putting on, and knew he had seen the momentarily awestruck face he had made outside.

Bloody hell.

* * *

_Arthur hated, in general, all of Francis's clothing - old or new. It was impossible to keep one's composure around someone who could probably pull off a bin bag and make it not only sexy, but this year's new clothing line. _

* * *

England took a deep breath in the small break, before hot lips were back on his own.

The heat raced through his veins, intoxicating him. It was almost as if he was in a sauna; his skin growing sticky and his eyes falling shut.

A skilled tongue ran along his lips, leaving a trail of delicious tasting warmth. The hint of wine that permeated each of their breaths did nothing to affect their judgement however, so when he tentatively opened his mouth and that appendage slipped into it, he couldn't later blame it on the alcohol. He couldn't blame the loud groan he let out on it either.

There was a tiny voice lingering inside him screaming that he shouldn't let it go on, that it was a mistake, that he would get hurt in the end.

However, he couldn't hear it over the sound of his blood roaring in his ear, of his heart pounding faster and faster as the kiss grew deeper and more passionate.

Almost before he noticed, his hands were tangled in soft blond hair, pulling that head ever closer, and two hands were on his waist, pulling _him _closer.

He lost all track of time, kissing in a way that solely belonged to the man he was currently with - oh, _oh_, now he knew why it was called _French_ kissing - and in a way he doubted he would ever, ever forget. Nor would he ever even want to.

It was like drowning, but instead of trying to swim upwards to the air, he was letting himself sink further into the depths...

... Never again to surface.

* * *

_Arthur hated the way that Francis kissed him. So passionately and so full of love, lust, want, need... It was hypnotising and utterly impossible to quit._

* * *

"Did you know *hic* _Amérique_, that _vin est magique?_"

"Uh, dude? You know I don't speak Frenchie, right?"

"_Il est! _You don't believe me! You don't believe me, do you _Amérique__?_"

"Whoa! Don't cry, man! Artie, dude, help me!"

"Why don't you believe the wine is magical, America? That's a very mean thing to say to France."

"_J'en étais sûr!_"

"Iggy! You suck!"

England had to clap a hand over his mouth as France stumbled with a few tears running down his face into a red faced and embarrassed America. England also didn't miss the conspirational wink the very _sober _Frenchman threw him from over the flustered America's shoulder.

He rolled his eyes as he once again tried to hold back his very _manly _- thank you very much - giggles.

How had that wanker managed to rope him into this?

* * *

_Arthur hated it that Francis knew exactly how to make him laugh. __Knowledge is power, and power always seemed to be used against him._

* * *

Arthur backed away with a quivering lip, one he tried to make go across as angered. Not hurt.

"Why are you always like zis? 'Ave you ever considered the fact zat zis 'urts me too, you _imbécile_? Ze way you act?"

France continued his small rant, finally allowing all of his genuine irritations regarding the man to air. When he eventually finished, he looked up at the focus of his annoyances, and was taken aback by what he saw.

England was standing with his back to the door, staring with wide eyes at his rather recent partner. His eyes shone with unshed tears, and his hands - which were now clinging to each other tightly, knuckles white - shook with bottled up emotions.

Slowly, France's face morphed to a kind of knowing horror, as if he understood the magnitude of effect the carelessly thrown insults had on the - sensitive, a new discovery - nation.

"_A-Angleterre... Je suis_ _désol_-"_  
_

England spun around, fully intent on France never seeing the impact his thoughts had on him - how had he let himself get so weak? Enough to allow France of all people to be able to hurt him.

It was the worst, he supposed as he yanked the handle down to pull open the door, of letting people past the multiple emotional barriers. You would have thought he would have learnt with America all those centuries ago, and there he's gone and done it again. Foolish, that's what he was. A old fool who refused to learn from past mistakes. He just kept letting them in, and then he had the gall to be shocked when they left or broke him.

He needed to stop this, it wasn't worth the eventual heartbreak. He needed to stop hurting himself.

Nothing would ever change; he was better off alone. They all thought so too.

Or so he presumed, at least until a hand grabbed his wrist and refused to let go.

Maybe he was wrong.

"_Non,_ you are not leaving!"

... Maybe... maybe someone was different.

* * *

_Arthur hated Francis knew exactly how to make him cry; he had the power to grind him into dust, and he knew it. But it was a mutual talent - which was the only thing which made it even_ _bearable. _

* * *

England's heavy breathing took what seemed like ages to calm down, something which was reciprocated in his equally exhausted partner.

They had been 'dating' for about a year, and to be honest, it had felt like the right time. Neither of them were inexperienced, no, but neither of them had ever had a truly exclusive relationship with anyone before, so it had been a new thing for both of them to share.

Also, England had wanted to see if the Frenchman could last that long, or if he would crack and England would have been right not to fully trust him.

But, the taller man had remained faithful and loving - if he had slowly become more and more unbearable during those last long months. Eventually, it had gotten to the point where the wait had become pointless for both of them, points were proved, and all of the apparent and abundant tension had culminated in two hot and wild nights in Carcassonne during the humid month of August.

England winced as he tried to move his legs and failed; his sweaty skin had stuck to France's and he doubted they would be able to move for quite a while without the painful hisses he would like to avoid. So, resignedly, he stopped his attempts at freedom, sinking back into the damp bedsheets that clung to him.

A tired chuckle vibrated through the chest his head was resting on, and his face muscles twitched before he gave up on trying to form a frown that the other man couldn't see anyway.

"What, frog?" His voice was hoarse, and when Frenchman chuckled again, no doubt remembering why it was so, he blushed heavily.

"Nozing, Arthur. Nozing." The last word was a barely a whisper, and England knew the feeling.

So, preferring to leave the analysis over what had just happened and what this meant for them until later, he threw away all reservations and snuggled back down into those encompassing arms; surrendering himself to unconsciousness.

He pretended not to noticed it when their fingers linked together, or when he gave his partner's a light squeeze.

* * *

_Arthur hated it when Francis held him; for some particular reason, it turned him into a sap.__ Damn it._

* * *

"_Je t'aime, _Arthur Kirkland. Representative of England. Representative of Great Britain and Northern Ireland."

England looked around at all of the shocked - yet unsurprised, England didn't want to think about that - nations and slightly appalled bosses surrounding them, before looking back at France, who was staring at him with hopeful eyes.

"You bloody bastard!"

Probably not the desired reaction.

He grabbed France's ear and heaved, pulling the whining exhibitionist out of the conference room and into an smaller, quieter and most importantly _emptier _one down the hall.

"Why in the name of God would you say that in front of everyone?" He hissed, really trying to picture France's obscure motives. Surely there was a better way to say it other than in front of the _entire_ bloody _world_?

France pouted, but squared his shoulders determinedly. England was wary of the grim gleam in those azure eyes.

"But I _have _been telling you. You just do not react. What am I supposed to do, hm? You write it off! So I zink you have to listen in front of everyone. Perhaps take me seriously for once."

England froze. Dear God... the man had been serious?

And all this time England had been... dismissing him. Not believing those had been actual confessions, simply repeated statements of how emotionally open France was. He suddenly felt extremely guilty.

Now he had to fix that out of place, downtrodden expression on the extravagant man's handsome face.

... Did he just say handsome? This whole relationship crap really was turning him soft. He supposed he should care more.

England said something undistinguishable, and France squinted, not picking it up.

"_Quoi_?"

England mumbled again.

"Iloveyoutoo."

He heard correctly this time, he was sure of it.

"_Quoi? _I cannot 'ear you, Arthur."

"I said, _Francis_, that I. Love. You. Too. Deaf git."

England glanced up hesitantly from his staring at the floor, and the instant he laid eyes on his lover his breath was abruptly stolen away.

France's replying smile could only be described as beautiful.

And for the very first time in his entire life, he smiled back just as lovingly.

* * *

_Arthur hated it that Francis made him love him..._

_... But only in public._

* * *

**Hmmm... Four hours this time. Wow, FrUK just seems to spew from my fingers and into a document by itself. Glorious inspiration!**

**Let me make this perfectly clear - I have nothing against Miley Cyrus (in fact, I admire her fame), but I am not a fan. The song just seemed to fit; and the fact that I used the things Miley says she LIKES for the things Arthur HATES - typical England. *rolls eyes***

**So no flames please! Really, I'll just give them to 2P!Vene, and any of you who have read my story DCDS will know this is NOT a good idea. God knows what that boy would do with them. Probably torture Lovi some more (or he might move onto Toni! NO!); and I don't want to write that again! *sobs***

**... I suppose you don't really need to listen to the song, but it might increase some understanding. Not required though!**

**Reviews would be very much appreciated this time, thank you! My last FrUK received none, yet 7 favourites, and I feel very hurt :-(**

**Review _PLEASE_!**

**_*Thank you to Silver for correcting my awful French! I hate it when people butcher my language, so it's appreciated when people stop me from butchering theirs!*_  
**


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